


Chance

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Faramir finally talks to the soccer captain.





	Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brandyalexanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for heavierheart’s “5 [college] with either aragorn/faramir” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s in the library long after finishing his paper, lounged on one of the couches in the corner and fixated on a table across the room. Two other tables lie between, as empty as the rest of the library. The ever-present ghosts of footsteps and whispered gossip have finally puttered out. Only Faramir and one other student remain.

Faramir’s the only one awake, and he knows he’s wasted anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour wondering what to do about that. He’d meant to just come in to relax, do a bit of last-minute research, finish off his essay, and catch the first bus home.

But that was before the captain of the soccer team sat down across from him, and he was almost _positive_ that that illustrious captain not only spotted him, but caught his eye and _smiled_.

Then Aragorn buried himself in a pile of books, a plethora of other students sat between, and Faramir put all his effort into _not_ staring. And he did decently well. Until everyone eventually left, he finished off his work, and there was nothing to do _but_ ogle Aragorn’s handsome form. Even slumped over a table, cheek pressed against a page, Aragorn’s like a living magnet. He’s in his shorts from the field, a branded blazer pulled over his loose shirt. His dark hair is a wavy mess across his book, and, when Faramir squints, he can make out a couple day’s worth of stubble on Aragorn’s strong chin. 

Ogling Aragorn is nothing new for Faramir. Usually he does it on the field, standing on the sidelines as Aragorn works himself into a sweat, earning voracious calls from all the cheerleaders and raucous encouragement from all his teammates. They share a few classes, but Faramir always purposely sits as far away from Aragorn as possible—he’s taken one too many to let himself get distracted in them. And this is the first time it’s really been just _them_ and Faramir’s felt a moral obligation to _do something._ Namely, wake Aragorn up. School is no place to sleep, and Faramir already knows he’s getting dangerously close to the end of the bus schedule.

It takes a great amount of effort to finally pull himself away and start packing up his bag, but he’s not as spineless as his father thinks him. He can manage a simple wake-up call. He keeps one eye on Aragorn even as he weaves away to place his books back on the right shelves, and then he’s sucking in a deep breath and heading over. The closer he gets, the more he can smell Aragorn’s rich cologne. 

When he’s close enough, he reaches out to gently shake Aragorn’s shoulder. He’s as light as possible, and it’s enough—Aragorn stirs instantly, and Faramir jerks back his hand. Then Aragorn’s groggily sitting up and rubbing at his eyes, muttering a quiet, “Oh, shit.” He glances over his shoulder a second later, to where Faramir’s frozen solid, and he adds a sleepy, “Faramir?”

Faramir’s never heard his name on Aragorn’s lips before, not even the one time they were properly introduced. It makes his chest clench awkwardly, and he actually blurts, “I didn’t think you would remember me.”

Aragorn turns properly in his chair. He still looks drowsy, but his eyes catch in the overhead light as he grins. “How could I not? Boromir’s little brother, right? You’re at all our games.”

And Faramir’s going to continue to be at every one as long as Boromir’s on the team. But he knows he’d probably go anyway just so he could watch Aragorn play. He’s had the same crush for what feels like forever. He offers a sheepish shrug and doesn’t know what else to say. Most of Boromir’s friends seem to make him tongue-tied. Aragorn is a whole other level.

Aragorn starts to slide his stuff into his back at a languid pace, leaving a stack of books aside that he scoops up under one arm afterwards. Faramir automatically falls in behind him as he heads off to the stacks. Aragorn glances out the tall windows on the way, noting the blue-black sky and saying, “It’s gotten late, hasn’t it? Are we the only ones left?”

“Other than the librarian,” Faramir concludes, “but according to rumours, she never sleeps.”

Aragorn snorts. He pokes his books back into each open hole in the bookcase, completing the neat rows. Faramir feels a little stab of apprehension at the final one; it leaves them with nothing to do but part ways. But then, he probably shouldn’t have even followed Aragorn this far.

Aragorn heads for the exit next, and Faramir has to follow for that. Just as they’re passing through the automatic doors, Aragorn asks, “Isn’t this a little late for you to be here? I mean, you don’t live on campus—are you still with Boromir?”

Nodding, Faramir starts rolling up his sleeve to check his watch, answering, “It’s fine, so long as I can make the last—” but then he actually sees his watch and finishes with a feeble, “bus.” The last one left twenty minutes ago, evidently while he was still eyeing Aragorn up. He can feel himself paling. 

“I can give you a ride,” Aragorn offers.

Cheeks heating again and hopefully hidden by the darkness, Faramir insists, “No, it’s fine, I can run home—”

“At this time? C’mon, I know the way anyway. It’s not far from my place.”

Faramir stops himself just short of asking where _his place_ is. It’s bad enough that Faramir answers, “Thanks,” with a too-goofy smile. He just hopes he’s not as obvious as he feels. He feels like a nerd cliché having their heart burst by the big jock finally noticing them. Only they’re not in high school anymore, and they’re probably on the same academic level. Just a year or two different. And Aragorn’s almost uncomfortably gorgeous and Faramir’s still working through issues. 

Aragorn’s car is easy to pick out; it’s the only one in the parking lot. It’s nothing old or clunky, but it’s not particularly new either, just a plain black thing with four doors and faux-leather seats. Aragorn takes a moment to fish out his keys, while Faramir stands at the passenger side and tries not to stare. 

Aragorn gets in first, then leans over to pop the lock for Faramir’s side, and Faramir gets to climb in and escape the slightly chilled night air. He’s hyper-aware of how too-loud the door sounds when he slams it shut, though Aragorn doesn’t seem to notice, just turns the car on and pulls out of the spot. Faramir vacillates between soaking in the dream-like moment and wondering if Aragorn thinks this is awkward. But Aragorn asks as he leaves the lot, “Hey, Boromir says you’re a great player; why don’t you try out for the team sometime? Isn’t your dad a big time coach?”

Faramir answers, “Yeah,” but has to think on the rest; he doesn’t want to explain that that’s exactly why he doesn’t want to play. He doesn’t want to give his father another excuse to yell at him. Finally, he settles on, “My calendar’s really booked this semester, so I figure I’ll just stick to casual games for now.”

Aragorn tells him, “That’s too bad,” and Faramir looks over, wondering if he really means it. But his eyes are on the road, so it’s hard to tell. 

The drive is way too short. Boromir wanted a place close enough that he could jog to school, and the location seemed great at the time, but now Faramir wishes he lived clear across town just to drag this out. Instead, they’re there in no time. Faramir doesn’t even get a chance to suggest they put on the radio or to ask about Aragorn’s studies. They’re pulling off the main road and down the right side street before Faramir’s ready. The car rolls to a slow stop right at the edge of the driveway. Faramir’s tongue is stuck in his throat.

He takes a too-long minute to regain himself, then turns to Aragorn and says, “Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” Aragorn tells him, with a winning grin that he wants a framed picture of. “Tell Boromir I said ‘hi.’”

Faramir nods. Even though he knows if he does that, he’ll never hear the end of it—he’s sure Boromir’s noticed his crush, and Boromir’s always been protective of him. But maybe Aragorn’s a close enough friend to avoid all that. 

Aragorn’s a difficult man to leave. Faramir puts his hand on the door, turns as though to open it, but only turns back again to blurt, “You know... if you’re ever having a casual game and need an extra man...” He just sort of trails off.

And instead of filling in the rest, Aragorn shifts closer and drops one hand onto Faramir’s thigh, stopping Faramir’s heart in his chest. He looks down at it, dry-mouthed, square between his knee and crotch and intensely _warm_ right through the fabric. Aragorn’s hand is exactly as big as Faramir’s pictured in during his lewdest fantasies. 

When Faramir looks up again, Aragorn is leaning closer, and Faramir’s libido rushes forward to take him over—he closes the rest of the distance, crashing his mouth into Aragorn’s. 

The kiss is fast, hot, and sloppy—Faramir parts his lips instantly and pushes his tongue at Aragorn’s, only to find it sucked into Aragorn’s wet mouth. Then he’s being swallowed up, and it’s all Faramir can do to breathe. His hand darts up into Aragorn’s hair, fisting in the tangled locks he’s always wanted to run his fingers through. He couldn’t let go for the life of him.

Aragorn lets go first, gently slipping away, grinning in the starlight and the fluorescent glow of the dashboard. Still close, he murmurs huskily, “I’ve been wanting to do that for awhile. But I never really got the chance, and I figured Boromir would kill me if I just marched over and started ravishing his cute baby brother.”

Faramir’s too busy reeling to be offended at being labeled the ‘baby brother.’ If Aragorn thinks him cute, it’s worth it. Somehow he manages to mutter, “You call that ravishing?” Aragorn grins broadly, and Faramir, blushing up a storm, dares to press, “Want to come inside?”

“I want to fuck you in my backseat,” Aragorn counters, “but I try to be a bit more of a gentleman. How’s lunch after tomorrow’s practice sound? I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

Faramir says, “Sure,” and is fairly positive he’d say sure to just about anything right now. “Then you can come inside.”

Aragorn laughs, hearty and beautiful. Faramir tries to memorize the sound. 

Then Aragorn leans in for another kiss, chaster this time, though Faramir tries to follow it and whines when it’s done. It’s all he can do to scrape his dignity together, and he sighs a final, “Good night.”

Aragorn mirrors, “’Night,” and withdraws his hand. 

Faramir forces himself out of the car and does his best not to look back too much while he walks to the front door, his ankles sporting wings.


End file.
